


Weary

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam takes care of his Frodo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Epoxide (MiyuTanemura)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiyuTanemura/gifts).



> A/N: Present for my darling Epoxide, who wanted “Sam's helping Frodo get better (after illness?) and it's cute and fluffy”.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He fumbles when he comes through the door, trying to balance two teacups and the kettle on the tray and shift in on his shoulder. He curses his own clumsiness instantly, because he hears a hitch of breath from the bed, and he knows he’s woken his charge. 

Frodo peers at him blearily through dark lashes, brown bangs slicked across his sweaty forehead. His face is pale, clammy, and his eyes and nose look too pink against it. His lips are chapped and almost white. He looks something like a ghost: a fragile mess. But still beautiful. At his weakest, he’s as pretty as he always is; he’s still _Frodo_ and Sam still _loves him_ , and he tries to smile with the corners of his lips, the same way as he always does. 

Sam comes to set the tray on the nightstand. The bed at Bag End is bigger than his own, even though Sam’s much fatter, but Frodo deserves that luxury. It also works best for them like this, when Sam has an excuse to stay with Frodo—he’s sworn not to leave until his master’s better. There was a knowing look in his old gaffer’s eyes when he said it, but an understanding one. They’ve always been somewhat inseparable. 

With his hands free, Sam bends over the bed. He sweeps some of Frodo’s curls aside to kiss his too-hot forehead. The soft touch makes Frodo smile wider, a raspy keening noise filtering out of his sore throat. Then he mumbles, “You shouldn’t—you’ll get sick.”

“I hardly ever do,” Sam says in dismissal, and it’s true enough. He’s always had a high immunity. His gaffer says it’s because he works so long in the garden, with the warm sun and earth making him strong, like a gnarled old tree. When Frodo tries to sit up, Sam’s right there to help. He peels the sheets down to Frodo’s lap and keeps an arm around Frodo’s back. Frodo’s white shirt hangs open, his bare chest falling too far with each exhale. It hurts to see him struggle. But Frodo’s a brave thing, and he doesn’t complain. 

He sighs, “My sturdy Sam.” Sam can feel his cheeks heat up, sun-kissed to red. He isn’t nearly so strong as Frodo gives him credit for. One kind look from his master and his knees go weak. 

He takes a seat beside Frodo on the bed and fetches the tea himself. Frodo tries to hold the cup, but his hands are trembling. It’s almost imperceptible, but Sam sees all of Frodo’s nuances, and he lifts the cup to Frodo’s lips himself. The worst of it has passed. But the recovery’s important, and Sam makes sure Frodo eats and sleeps and is as happy as he can be while the sickness ebbs away. 

Frodo puts his smaller hands around Sam’s as he drinks from the cup, latching delicately onto the brim and letting Sam tip it gently back. Frodo sips at the sweet liquid, and Sam stares too hard at the wetness of his lips and the bob of his adam’s apple. Frodo makes a mewling noise when he’s done, and Sam tips the cup back. Frodo’s hands slip away. Sam puts the cup back on the nightstand. 

Frodo sniffs, coughs, covers his face in his elbow and sneezes into it: a wreck of all different kinds. He looks impossibly _cute_ in each one, which makes Sam feel both badly and blessed. After, Frodo licks his lips and looks up at Sam with his big, bright blue eyes, prettier than the clear sky. He looks like he wants to ask something, but it doesn’t come out, so Sam says instead, “You should rest more.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing,” Frodo mumbles, coughing in the middle.

“Good, it’s how you’ll get better.”

“I’ll get better because my faithful Sam got me through it,” Frodo murmurs, grinning. It makes Sam blush again and want to dole out more kisses, but he doesn’t dare overstep or impose. Frodo does need rest. 

So Sam gently pushes him back, and Frodo gives in to obey, letting himself be ushered down to the pillows. Then Sam nudges him to roll over, an idea coming on. Frodo looks confused but lies obediently on his stomach, while Sam pushes the sheets away. 

He spreads his hands over Frodo’s shoulder blades, setting in to knead the tension out of Frodo’s too-tight back. Frodo stops him after only a moment, muttering, “Wait,” and pulling off his shirt. Then he settles again, sighing happily, with his sweat-beaded skin soft under Sam’s work-calloused hands. Sam tenderly massages the warm flesh with an unparalleled devotion. He knows that nothing relaxes Frodo like a good massage, or at least one from his Sam, who works with his hands all day and knows enough of Frodo to read all the signs. He knows what Frodo likes, and he delivers in spades. He soon has Frodo making soft, pleased noises and melting into ease.

“You’re good to me,” Frodo mumbles near the end, quiet and groggy. Massages often lull him to sleep. Sam says nothing. He’s happy, but he concentrates on taking Frodo’s pain away. He tries to replace it with comfort and the feeling of being loved, which Frodo very much is.

Frodo falls asleep before too long. There’s a peaceful smile on his face. Sam places a kiss at the top of his spine and murmurs, “Sleep well, Mr. Frodo.”

Then he gathers one of Mr. Bilbo’s old books and takes it to the other side of the bed to read, where he can watch out for his Frodo and keep all the nightmares away.


End file.
